“Xander?” My voice slices through the apartment’s perfect silence. Nothing. I just had mind-blowing sex with a serial killer. The thought hits me. And the weirdest part? I’m not even bothered by it. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for the panic to set in. The moral crisis. The “oh God, what have I done” moment. Nothing comes. “Please don’t be dismembering someone in the bathtub,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the bed’s edge. “I’m not ready for that level of relationship commitment.”
